•'( 


THE 

SOD  HOUSE  IN  HEAVEN, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


HARRY    K.    MILLS. 

I/ 


TOPEKA,  KANSAS: 

GEO.    W.    CRANE     &     COMPANY. 

1892. 


,  18&2;<bV  &AI:I:Y  E.  MILLS 


DEDICATORY. 


TO   MY 

FATHER    AND    MOTHER, 

WHOSK    WISDOM     IN     THE    (U'lUANCE    OF    THEIR    CHILDKKN 

HAS    BEEN    EQUALED    ONLY    BY    THEIU    WILLING 

SELF-SACRIFICES    FOR    THEM, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS 
WITH    GRATEFUL    AFFECTION    IH-MMf  A  I  KI>. 


921341 


EXPLANATION. 


IT  is  customary  to  preface  a  volume  like  this  with  the 
statement  that  its  contents  are  published  at  the  earnest  so- 
licitation of  many  friends. 

However  true  this  might  be  of  the  present  work,  the 
author  will  say  nothing  about  the  matter,  but  will  frankly 
acknowledge  that  the  incentives  which  have  led  to  the 
production  of  many  a  similar  volume  have  probably  in- 
fluenced him. 

Neither  will  he  give  any  hint  as  to  how  great  or  other- 
wise are  his  expectations.  He  believes  that  every  writer 
in  the  long  run  is  treated  justly  by  the  reading  public,  and 
he  hopes  for  his  book  only  that  measure  of  favor  which  it 
really  merits.  H.  E.  M. 

WASHBURN  COLLEGE, 

TOPEKA,  KANSAS,  December,  1892. 


CONTENTS. 


DIALECT  POEMS. 

PAGE. 

Tin.  SOD  HOUSE  IN  HEAVEN, ' 11 

Tin:  HAYFIELD  FAMILY: 

Hezekiah  Hayfield,  Sr., 18 

Hezekiah  Hayfield,  Jr., 22 

Ezra  Long's  Serenade, 26 

Mr.  Hayfield's  Favorite  Music,      30 

Prairie  Cradle  Song, 31 

TWICET  EZ  TIGHT 34 

PUNKIN  PIE, 37 

MAKING  IT  RAIN, 39 

LITTLE  JIM  AGIN, 44 

How  LITTLE  NEB  MADE  PEACE, 46 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THAT  NEW  BOY, r>7 

A  PICTURE  OF  LIFE,      62 

WOOLLY  BILL,     66 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM,      74 

KANSAS, 79 

THE  COWBOY  POET, 82 

THE  RESUBMISSIONIST'S  STORY,         88 

MASSA'S  CONVERSION, 96 

106 


•(•)• 


DIALECT  POEMS 

If 


THE   SOD  HOUSE   IN   HEAVEN. 

Well,  yes,  it 's  sometimes  pretty  lonesome  here, 
Particularly  'bout  this  time  of  year, 

When  harvestin'  is  done, 

An'  hay  in'  hez  begun, 
An"  early  corn  is  hard'nin'  in  the  ear. 

You  'd  like  to  hev  me  tell  you  'bout  my  past, 
An'  why  I  'm  sick  an'  all  alone  at  last  * 

Why,  yes,  I  'd  kind  of  like 

To  tell  you  'bout  it,  Ike, 
Since  you  Ve  been  kind  enough  to  stop  an'  ast. 

It 's  twenty  year  since  me  an'  Liza  came 
An'  settled  down  here  on  this  timber  claim. 

The  land  was  wild  an'  new, 

An'  neighbors  mighty  few, 
An'  all  around  here  there  was  lots  o'  game. 
(ii) 


12  DIALECT  POEMS. 

I  do  n't  believe  there  ever  was  a  king 
That  felt  ez  big  ez  I  did  'long  the  spring 

That  this  sod  house  was  done, 

An'  Liza  hed  begun 
To  fix  it  up  with  things  she  'd  thought  to  bring. 

O'  course  we  made  a  pretty  modest  start, 
For  wealth  an'  us  was  mighty  fur  apart. 

But  still  we  did  n't  mind 

Ef  we  was  some  behind 
The  latest  styles,  fer  we  was  rich  at  heart. 

There  's  allers  lots  o'  work  when  you  begin 
To  make  a  farm  where  grass  hez  allers  been. 
But  everything  looked  bright 
With  sort  o'  rainbow  light ; 
So  I  pulled  off  my  coat  an'  waded  in. 

One  day  a  chap,  that  could  n't  spell  ner  add, 
Come  round  to  see  what  sort  o'  board  we  had. 

We  see  he  'd  come  to  stay, 

An'  would  n't  go  away, 
Fer  Liza  was  his  ma  and  me  his  dad. 


7 '///•:  son  //ocs/-:  /.v  //A. -/TAW.  13 

I  never  see  so  peert  a  chap  c/  liini, 

An'  full  o'  mischief  clean  up  to  the  brim  ; 

An'  allers  in  fer  fun, 

'Fore  he  could  walk  er  run  ; 
An'  so  we  called  him  Little  P'risky  Jim. 

An'  when  his  mother  made  him  his  first  pants, 
You  ort  to  seen  that  little  feller  prance. 

I  half  believed  the  child 

Was  really  goin'  wild 
The  way  he  'd  run  around  an'  jump  an'  dance. 

One  day  the  wind  got  on  a  sort  o'  swirl, 
An'  fetched  around  to  us  a  baby  girl. 

She  hed  a  pretty  smile 

Staid  with  her  all  the  while ; 
An'  so  we  called  her  Little  Laughing  Pearl. 

An'  them  two  little  ones,  so  pure  an'  bright, 
They  filled  this  old  sod  house  plum  full  o'  light. 
I  made  'em  lots  o'  toys 
An'  helped  'em  with  their  noise, 
An'  used  to  like  to  watch  'em  sleep  at  night. 


14  DIALECT  POEMS. 

An'  Liza,  every  special  pleasant  day, 

Would  send  'em  out  around  the  place  to  play. 

I  allers  liked  to  see 

'Em  come  to  bother  me 
An'  ast  me  things,  an'  git  round  in  the  way. 

On  rainy  days  when  they  was  kep'  inside, 
'Fore  any  other  sort  o'  game  was  tried, 

They  'd  say,  "Please,  daddy,  please 
Git  on  your  hands  an'  knees." 

An'  so  I  'd  be  a  ho$s  fer  them  to  ride. 

An'  that 's  the  way  things  went  about  five  year ; 
We  hed  a  little  branch  o'  Heaven  here ; 

It  want  no  gold-paved  floor 

Nor  pearly  gate  fer  door 
That  made  it  so ;  but  it  was  love  and  cheer. 

I  somehow  kind  o'  thought  'twould  allers  be 
The  same  sunshiny  place  fer  them  an'  me ; 

Till,  sudden  like  one  day, 

Jim  run  away  to  play 
Up  yonder,  jest  beyond  where  we  could  see. 


•////•:  SOD  f/OU$£  IN  ///••-//  /  15 

Poor  little  Pearl  !   she  wasn't  vit  quite  four, 
An'  still  she  grieved  for  Jim  ex  much  er  more 

Than  Liza  did,  er  me ; 

An'  it  was  hard  to  see 
Her  lonesome  like  a-playiir  round  the  door. 

An'  by  air  by,  one  still  an'  starry  night, 

Her  little  face  seemed  more  than  common  bright ; 

An'  ez  she  quiet  lay, 
"Oh,  Jim  ! "  we  heard  her  say, 
An'  then  she  went  forever  from  our  sight. 

An'  there  was  Liza  now  an'  me,  heart-sore, 
Jest  left  again  the  way  we  was  before 

The  little  ones  lied  come 

To  share  our  sod-house  home, 
Exceptin'  that  we  loved  each  other  more. 

It  seemed  to  me  thet  Liza  was  my  share 
Ef  part  o'  them  I  loved  I  lied  to  spare ; 

But  jest  fer  Pearl  an'  Jim 

God  called  her  up  to  him ; 
An'  maybe  she  was  needed  over  there. 


16  DIALECT  POEMS. 

But  after  she  was  gone  I  couldn't  see 

Ez  it  was  much  odds  how  things  went  with  me  ; 

An'  so,  year  after  year, 

I  've  jest  been  stayin'  here, 
Half-way  betwixt  what 's  been  an"  what  's  to  be. 

An'  ever  since  the  first  o'  this  sick  spell 
I  Ve  half  been  hopin'  that  I  'd  not  git  well. 

I  do  n't  keer  much  to  stay. 

With  them  all  gone  away ; 
The  place  is  lonesomer  than  I  can  tell. 

Yes,  thank  you,  Ike ;  I  b'lieve  I  'd  like  a  drink ; 
I  aint  no  worse,  jest  kind  o'  weak,  I  think. 

How  bright  'tis  everywhere ! 

What  soft,  warm,  dreamy  air ; 
An'  great  big  flowers,  red  an'  white  an'  pink. 

Jest  listen,  Ike,  I  hear  'em  sing  somewhere ! 
An'  there  's  a  shinin'  river  over  there, 

An'  near  the  glitterin'  sands 

A  great  big  city  stands, 
An'  there  's  a  flock  of  angels  in  the  air. 


7 UK  SOD  HOUSE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Outside  the  place  a  piece,  yit  middlin'  nigh, 
I  see  a  little  sod  house  'bout  ez  high 

Ez  this,  but  lots  more  trim ; 

There  's  Liza,  Pearl  an1  Jim 
A-beck'nin'  me  to  come.     Dear  Ike,  good-bye. 


18  DIALECT  POEMS. 


THE  HAYFIELD  FAMILY. 

[The  Hayfields  moved  to  Kansas  in  early  days,  and  settled  on  a  claim 
near  the  center  of  the  State.  Here  Mr.  Hayfield  built  a  two-roomed  sod 
house,  and  here  the  family  have  passed  many  days  of  industrious  content. 
Earlj7  and  late  they  have  wrestled  with  the  rich  soil  until  they  have  com- 
pelled it  to  yield  them  a  very  fair  competence.  Mr.  Hayfield  loves  his 
homestead,  enjoys  his  unpretentious  dwelling,  and  does  not  care  to  be 
Governor.  Mrs.  Hayfield  is  equally  content  with  their  simple  lot,  her 
greatest  pride  being  in  her  gilt-edged  butter,  which  has  been  praised  and 
premiumed  at  every  county  fair  for  years.  Simple,  old-fashioned  piety 
regulates  the  household,  and  frugality  is  its  watchword.  The  family  is  a 
numerous  one,  blessed  with  perfect  health  and  a  good  degree  of  every- 
day intelligence.  Its  prime  characteristic  is  thrift.] 

HEZEKIAH  HAYFIELD,  SR. 

[One  spring,  just  before  time  to  plow  for  corn,  Mr.  Hayfield  went  over 
into  an  adjoining  county  to  visit  a  brother-in-law.  He  and  his  host  had 
a  lively  discussion  as  to  the  relative  desirableness  of  city  and  country  life. 
The  brother-in-law  said  that  as  soon  as  possible  he  should  sell  his  farm 
and  move  to  town.  Mr.  Hayfield  delivered  himself  as  follows :  ] 

My  neighbors,  Peter  Tompkins  an'  Ebenezer  Brown, 
Hev  sold  their  farms  an'  fixin's,  an'  are  movin'  off  to  town. 


THE    IIAYI-IEI.D   FAMII.\.  19 

They  're  gittin'  tired  o'  farmin',  an'  they  want  to  rest,  I 

guess ; 
1 '11  bet  you  they  git  sick  o'  town  in  thirty  days  er  less. 

Ef  they  can  stan'  it,  I  can,  but  I  swan  it 's  hard  to  see 
How  they  can   live,  shut  up  in  town  the  way  they  '11  hev 
to  be. 

There  's   houses  on   both   sides  of  'em,  an'  neighbors  all 

around ; 
•Can't  hardly  raise  no  garden  truck,  they  '11  hev  so  little 

ground  ; 

Can't  keep  no  pigs  ner  chickens  er  their  neighbors  '11  com- 
plain ; 

Won't  hev  no  eggs  to  sell,  ner  cheese  er  butter,  stock  er 
grain. 

They  '11  hev  to  git  some  office,  er  fall  back  on  Providence, 
An'  do  a  sight  o'  rnowin'  in  their  meader  of  expense. 

It 's  allers  been  a  puzzle  what  -so  many  town  folks  do, 
To  make  a  livin' ;  yit  somehow  they  seem  to  worry  through. 


20  DIALECT  POEMS. 

But  there's  nothin'  like  the  country  ef  it 's  comfort  thet 

you  want, 
Where  the  prairie  chickens  muster  an' the  rabbits  hev  their 

haunt. 


Where  the  larks  is  up  an'  singin'  in  the  rnornin'  'fore  it 's- 

light, 
An'  the  katydids  is  drummin'  at  their  orchestra  all  night. 

An'  the  choir  at  the  fish-pond  run  a  sort  o'  music  race, 
With  whatever  else  is  singin',  bringin'  in  their  bull-frog 
bass. 


An'  the  moonlight 's  sort  o'  mellow,  an'  the  evenin'  wind  is 

soft, 
An'  the  barn  is  full  o'  perfume  from  the  new  hay  in  the$ 

loft. 


An'  the  apples  in  the  orchard  throwin'  kisses  at  the  sun, 
Git  to  blushin'  an'  explainin'  thet  they  meant  it  all  in  fun.* 


THE   HAYFIELD   FAMILY.  21 

An'  the  watermelons  chuckle,  an'  the  yeller  pumpkins  grin, 
An'  the  sweet  potaters  giggle  while  the  hollyhocks  chime 
in. 

An'  the  turkeys  strut  an'  gobble,  an'  the  guineas  run  an1 

screech  ; 
An'  the    roosters  pitch  their  crowin'  jest  ez  high  ez  they 

can  reach. 


An'  you  see  the  hogs  a-fat'nin',  an'  the  cattle  lookin'  sleek ; 
An'  the  geese   a-growin'  feathers  ez  they  waddle  up  the 
creek. 


An'  the  prairie  dogs  a-barkin'  ez  they  lay  round  in  the  sun  ; 
An'  a  blue  streak  'cross  the  meader  —  some  jack-rabbit  on 
the  run. 


An'  you   live  on   home-made  cookin';   hev  old-fashioned 

buttermilk, 
Succotash  an'  apple  dumplin',  roastin'  ears  jest  in  the  silk. 


22  DIALECT  POEMS. 

Pancakes  wallerin'  in  molasses  witli  an  awful  temptin'  look  ; 
Ham  an'  eggs  an'  baked  potaters  like  yer  mother  used  ta 
cook. 

Oh,  there  's  nothin'  like  the  country,  an'  the  health  the 

meaders  give, 
An'  there  's  nothin'  like  a  sod  house  ef  you  really  want  to 

live. 

An'  there  's  nothin'  like  the  prairies,  where  the  air  is  pure- 

an'  free, 
One  good  Kansas  quarter-section  —  them  is  jest  the  stuff 

fer  me ! 


HEZEKIAH  HAYFIELD,  JR. 

[Young  Hayfield  is  twenty  years  of  age  —  an  intelligent  lad,  in  whom, 
ambition  and  awkwardness  are  evenly  balanced.  He  has  always  been 
kept  on  very  familiar  terms  with  the  plow,  but  has  twice  attended  the 
State  Fair  at  Topeka,  and  has  become  infatuated  with  what  he  has  seen 
of  city  life.  He  takes  issue  with  his  father  in  the  following  language :  ] 

They  say  thet  the  farmer  is  king  of  the  soil, 
An'  lives  like  a  lord  on  the  fruit  of  his  toil ; 


Till-.   //./}'/•  •//•:/./)   FAMILY.  23 

Has  nothiif  to  worry  him,  nothin'  to  fear, 
Uut  jest  keeps  a-prosperin'  year  after  year. 

He  lias  t'er  liis  partners  the  wind  an'  the  rain, 
The  sun  scatters  gold  on  his  acres  of  grain, 

An'  keeps  'em  a-growin'  while  he  is  asleep, 

An'  loads  'em  with  wealth  when  they  're  ready  to  reap  ; 

That  the  farmer  is  only  jest  playin'  at  work, 

Not  half  so  hard  pressed  ez  the  merchant  er  clerk. 

This  sounds  awful  nice ;   but  I  jest  want  to  say 
Thet  when  yer  a-farmin'  it  do  n't  work  that  way. 

There  's  lots  o'  things  worse  than  the  farm,  seems  to  me  ; 
But  yit  it  aint  half  what  it  's  cracked  up  to  be. 

There's   drought   an'    there's    chinch -bugs,    there's 

floods  an'  there  's  rust ; 
There  's  grasshoppers  hatchin'  right  out  o'  the  dust. 

Yer  sheep  are  a  picnic  fer  coyotes  an'  dogs, 
Aif  cholera  claims  half  yer  chickens  an'  hogs. 


24:  DIALECT  POEMS. 

Yer  windmills  an'  fences  hev  lots  o'  mean  tricks, 
An'  lay  awake  nights  jest  to  git  out  o'  fix. 

An' you  are  forever  a-tinkerin'  away 

At  things  thet  don't  bring  you  a  nickel  o'  pay. 

There  's  lots  o'  hard  sweatin'  fer  all  thet  you  git, 
An'  sometimes  you  sweat  without  gittin'  a  bit. 

These  folks  that  think  farmers  are  on  the  top  shelves, 
The  most  of  'em  never  tried  farmin'  themselves. 

In  thinkin'  the  country  lots  nicer  than  town, 
They  hev  my  opinions  jest  turned  upside  down. 

In  town  you  aint  tied  with  yer  stock  an'  yer  grain, 
You  never  hev  hay  lyin'  out  in  the  rain. 

You  sit  in  yer  office  er  stand  in  yer  store, 
Jest  watchin'  the  money  roll  in  at  the  door. 

They  fetch  you  yer  mail  an'  bring  'round  what  you  buy, 
They  sprinkle  the  streets  when  the  dust  tries  to  fly  ; 


/ •///•;  //,/ )  v- •//•:/.  n  /-,/.)///. j .  95 

An'  if  yer  front  yard  gits  to  pantin'  fer  rain 
Y<>u  open  the  gear  to  a  big  water-main. 

There  's  somethin'  to  go  to  about  every  night; 
There  's  sidewalks  an'  pavements  an'  plenty  o'  light. 

There  's  street  cars,  an'  parks,  an'  its  handy  to  stores ; 
They  allers  hev  screens  to  their  windows  an'  doors. 

An'  ef  you  aint  nothin'  to  do  fer  awhile 
But  talk  to  somebody  off  two  or  three  mile, 

You  jest  turn  a  crank  thet  is  hitched  to  a  bell, 
An'  ring  up  the  feller  an'  'phone  him  a  spell. 

Last  week  they  was  tellin'  at  old  Peter  Jones 

Thet  they  can  see  folks  through  them  there  telephones ; 

An'  somebody  said  thet  they  think  pretty  soon 
They'll  talk  with  the  man  thet  is  runnin'  the  moon. 

Now,  out  in  the  country  you  do  n't  see  such  things ; 
You  jest  hear  about  'em,  an'  wish  you  hed  wings. 


26  DIALECT  POEMS. 

But  people  in  town  always  hev  'em  close  byr 
An'  life  is  a  sort  of  a  Fourth  o'  July. 

An'  I  hev  concluded,  from  all  I  can  see, 
That  life  in  the  city  is  jest  right  fer  me. 


EZRA  LONG'S  SERENADE. 


[Ezra  Long  is  Mr.  Hayfield's  hired  man.  He  is  a  promising  youth,  in 
his  own  peculiar  way,  and  possesses  the  faculty  of  not  being  able  to  take 
a  hint — a  quality  which  is  distantly  related  to  perseverance.  He  has  al- 
ready recognized  in  himself  a  fine  singer,  though  he  has  not  yet  been 
able  to  convince  anyone  else  of  his  discovery.  He  tells  his  own  story, 
which  is  as  follows:] 


You  're  a-wonderin'  what 's  the  matter  with  my  eye  on 
the  off  side? 

Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  if  you  '11  keep  it  mighty  still ; 
You  see  there  came  a  family  from  the  city  to  reside 

In  that  summer  house  near  ourn  on  the  hill. 


7  ///•;  //.  / )  •/••//•.  /.  i)  /-.  I  MIL  ) .  -2  7 

The  people  lied  the  money,  and  a  lot  o'  city  airs, 

An'  an  awful  pretty  girl  about  sixteen  ; 
An'  I  see  her  out  one  mornin'  read  in'  on  the  porch  up- 
stairs, 

When  I  drove  a  lot  o'  calves  away  to  wean. 

Aint  no  idee  what  ailed  me,  but  ez  quick  ez  I  see  her 
My  senses  'peared  to  be  took  on*  their  feet ; 

I  stopped  an'  stood  a-gazin',  fer  I  could  n't  seem  to  stir ; 
She  looked  so  sort  o'  heavenly  an'  sweet. 

I  vowed  I  'd  git  acquainted  with  this  angel-beatin'  miss, 

An'  so  I  writ  some  verses  fer  a  song, 
An'  thought  I  'd  sing  'em  to  her ;  I  was  sure  that  after 
this 

She  'd  say,  "  Come  in  and  see  us,  Mr.  Long." 

I  knew  that  city  fellers  when  they  go  to  serenade 

Hev  playin'  on  a  harp  er  violin ; 
I  'd  allers  made  my  music  with  a  hoe  er  rake  er  spade, 

But  I  could  drum  on  somethin'  made  o'  tin. 


28  DIALECT  POEMS. 

I  almost  knew  Old  Hundred,  jest  from  hearin'  Liza  Ann, 
An'  though  the  words  an'  music  would  n't  fit, 

I  played  awhile  'fore  singin'  on  the  Hayfields'  old  dish- 
pan, 
Then  into  this  sweet  serenade  I  lit : 

[To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  Old  Hundred.] 

"  Betsy  Ann,  divinest  Betsy, 
Now  the  sun  has  gone  to  bed, 
An'  I  Ve  milked  old  Roan  and  Brindle, 
An'  the  ball-faced  calf  is  fed. 

"  An'  I  Ve  give  the  hogs  their  supper, 
Fed  the  pup  and  watched  him  smile, 
An'  fer  fear  you  might  be  lonesome, 
I  hev  come  to  sing  awhile. 

"  Betsy  dear,  I  Ve  been  a-thinkin' 
Ef  you  'd  hitch  yourself  with  me, 
We  could  haul  life  's  lumber  wagon, 
Jest  ez  slick  ez  slick  could  be." 


THE   If AYF1ELD   FAMILY.  29 

Here  I  let  up  on  the  singin'  but  went  on  a-drummiif 
still, 

Jest  to  give  'em  what  they  call  an  interloud  ; 
It  commenced  a-rainin'  stovewood,  bricks  an'  bootjacks, 

n't  to  kill, 
Like  cannon-balls  a-hailin'  from  a  cloud. 

But  I  airit  a  bit  discouraged,  an'  ez  soon  ez  I  can  walk, 

An'  see  a  little  more  with  this  off  eye, 
I  'm  goin'  to  go  an'  see  that  girl  an'  hev  a  right  good 
talk, 

An'  tell  her  what  I  hope  fer  by  an'  by. 

O'  course  she  may  upset  me,  but  I  hardly  think  she  will, 
When  she  has  really  heard  me  sing  a  song  ; 

But  if  she  tries  to  bounce  me  I  will  jest  freeze  to  her 

still, 
Until  I  change  her  name  to  Mrs.  Long. 


.30  DIALECT  POEMS. 


MR.  HAYFIELD'S  FAVORITE  MUSIC. 

When  I  was  to  Chicago 
1  thought  I'd  jest  drop  in 

An'  hear  that  Remininy 
Saw  on  his  violin. 

He  must  'a'  made  fine  music, 
Fer  they  would  cheer'  an  cheer, 

But  there  is  other  playin' 
That  better  fits  my  ear. 

I'd  ruther  lie  an'  listen, 
Some  sunny  summer  day, 

To  miles  o'  mower  music 

Thet  floods  the  fields  o'  hay. 

To  hear  the  windmill  playing 
Old  Hundred  on  the  pump ; 

The  hayrake's  "hallelujah!'1 
That  comes  with  every  dump. 


Till-:  UAYFIELD   FAMILY.  31 

There  ain't  no  grand  planner, 

Thet  I  hev  ever  seen, 
Can  make  such  strains  o'  sweetness 

Ez  my  old  thresh  machine. 

I  like  to  hear  the  grindstone 

A-tunin'  up  the  scythe 
To  play  fer  blackbird  choirs 

Thet  sing  so  gay  an'  blithe. 

I'm  allers  in  fer  music, 

I  hanker  fer  its  charm  ; 
But  not  that  city  janglin'. 

I  want  mine  off  the  farm. 


PRAIRIE  CRADLE-SONG. 

[It  is  evening.  Within  the  Ilayfield  home  they  are  enacting  the  clos- 
ing scenes  of  the  day.  Supper  is  over,  and  Ainamly  Hayfiekl  is  putting 
the  dishes  to  order.  By  the  table  sits  Mr.  Hayfield,  absorbed  in  the 
last  number  of  The  Alliance  Boomerang,  while  Hezekiah  Hayfield,  jr., 
is  stretched  before  the  fire  toasting  himself  into  drowsiness.  At  the  fur- 


32  DIALECT  POEMS. 

ther  end  of  the  room  Mrs.  Hayfiekl  is  lulling  to  sleep  little  Jerry 
Simpson  Hayfiekl,  so  named  because  he  has  always  raised  a  doleful 
protest  against  the  extravagant  and  barbarous  custom  of  wearing  hose. 
The  home-made  cradle  plays  a  soothing  accompaniment  as  the  mother 
croons  the  following:] 

Hush  thee,  my  baby,  the  daylight  is  dying, 

Night  wings  her  course  toward  the  lessening  west, 

Over  the  prairie  the  zephyrs  are  sighing, 
Slumber! and  welcomes  the  weary  to  rest. 

CHOKUS : 
Sleep,  sleep,  the  angels  keep 

Their  vigils  above  thy  head, 
For  Whip-poor-will  himself  is  still, 

And  Bunny  has  gone  to  bed. 


Rude  tho'  the  crib  that  received  thee,  a  stranger, 
Humble  the  home  that  rejoiced  at  thy  birth, 

Lowlier  yet  was  the  Bethlehem  manger 

Where  first  reposed  the  Redeemer  of  earth. 

Chorus. 


7 '//A    HAY  FIELD   FAMILY.  33 

Sweet  be  the  dreams  that  the  messengers  wing  thee, 
Fresh  from  the  throne  in  the  palace  of  God. 

Joy  they  have  brought  us  in  deigning  to  bring  thee 
Heavenly  joy  to  a  cottage  of  sod. 
Chorus. 


—  3 


34  DIALECT  POEMS. 


TWICET  EZ  TIGHT. 

What  made  me  marry  Susie?     Why,  'twas  cause  I  loved 

her  so. 
What  made  me  love  her?     I  '11  declare  I  aint  right  sure  I 

know, 

Except  that  she  had  allers  been  so  good  an'  kind  to  me, 
I  sort  o'  had  to  fall  in  love  to  even  up,  you  see. 

I  went  to  workin'  fer  her  dad  when  I  was  just  eighteen, 
The  awkwardest  young  country  jake  that  you  have  ever 

seen. 

She  must  'a'  felt  like  laughin'  when  I  spilt  my  cup  o'  tea, 
An'  dumped  the  gravy  in  my  lap,  an'  launched  some  bread 

at  sea. 

Down  in  the  water  pitcher ;   but  she  acted  awful  kind, 
An'  helped  me  straighten  up  the  mess  an'  told  me  not  to 
mind. 


/-:/.   TIGHT.  35 


An'  next  day  when  I  stopped  her  horse  that  tried  to  run 

away, 
She  thanked  me  till  I  wished  he  'd  run  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

An*  she  an'  me  was  always  pretty  friendly  after  that  ; 
Till  sittin'  by  the  spring  one  night  where  we  had  often  sat, 
I  stole  a  kiss  real  quiet  ez  our  talk  was  gittin'  slack, 
Then  felt  so  bad  about  it  that  I  had  to  give  it  back. 

Well,  next  thing  we  was  married  an'  was  on  a  rented 

farm, 

An'  I  'd  a  swore  'twas  fairy  land  ef  'twas  n't  that  my  arm 
Would  git  to  feelin'  tired  jest  the  way  it  used  to  do 
Along  toward  sunset  just  before  some  hard  day's  work 

was  through. 

An'   then   she'd    cheer   me   up,  you    know,  till    it  would 

almost  seem 

Ez  ef  I  must  be  livin'  in  the  palace  of  a  dream. 
But  one  by  one  the  racin'  years  hev  chased  each  other  by, 
While  trouble  an'  mistakes  hev  sometimes  clouded  up  the 

sky. 


36  DIALECT  POEMS. 

But  Susie  's  allers  been  the  same  no  matter  what  hez  come, 
An'   when  it's  been   most   dark   outside  it's  been   most 

bright  at  home. 

An'  since  she  's  allers  been  so  good  an'  kind  in  every  way, 
I  guess  I  've  fell  in  love  with  her  a  little  more  each  day. 

They  tied  the  knot  that  binds  us  fifty  year  ago  to-night ; 
So,  Parson,  tie  it  over,  only  make  it  twicet  ez  tight. 


V 


/'//•:.  37 


PUNKIN  PIE. 

Say,  Billy,  when  yer  fixin'  fer  to  fish  er  take  a  ride, 
An'  know  yer  goin'  to  git  to  feelin'  holler  like  inside, 
An'  see  yer  mother  puttin'  up  a  lunch  fer  by-an-by, 
Why  is  it  nothin'  strikes  you  like  the  piece  o'  punkin  pie? 

An'  while  yer  busy  waitin'  fer  the  fish  to  come  an'  bite, 
An'  wonderin'  why  the  skeeters  can 't  let  up  till  after  night, 
What  makes  the  bugs  an'  crickets  an'  the  birds  an'  squir- 
rels try 
To  chirp  an'  sing  an'  chatter  all  the  time  'bout  punkin  pie? 

An'  when  it  comes  to  eatiri'  ef  you  do  the  way  you  ort, 
An'  tackle  bread  an'  butter  first  an'  things  along  that  sort, 
What  makes  you  jest  ez  hungry  yit  an'  pretty  near  ez  dry 
Until  you  git  to  workin'  on  yer  piece  o'  punkin  pie  ? 


38  DIALECT  POEMS. 

An'  when  the  basket 's  empty  an'  the  cheese  an'  cake  is- 

done, 

An'  you  can  't  help  a-wishin'  that  you  had  n't  yit  begun, 
Oh,  aint  it  nice  to  lick  yer  lips,  to  scare  away  a  fly, 
An'  find  a  lot  remainin'  from  that  piece  o'  punkin  pie  ? 

Say,  Billy,  I  've  been  thinkin'  when  I  git  to  be  a  man, 
I  '11  have  'bout  forty  acres  jest  fer  punkins  ef  I  can. 
An'  may  be  I  '11  git  married,  but  the  girl  that  takes  my  eye 
Must  be  a  bird  at  bakin'  when  it  comes  to  punkin  pie. 


MAKING   //'  A'.l/M  39 


MAKING  IT  RAIN. 

DEAR  ZEKIEL  :    I  sit  down  to-night,  an'  take  my  pen  in 

ban', 
To  tell  you  'bout  the  stock  an'  crops,  an'  'bout  Mirandy 

Ann. 

But  first  I  '11  scratch  a  line  er  two,  fer  fear  I  might  fergit, 
About  our  weather,  an'  the  way  we  've  took  to  makin'  it. 

A  sleek  Chicago  feller  made  a  lot  of  us  believe 

That  we  wan't  gtttin'  half  the  rain  we  're  'titled  to  receive. 

He  had  a  sort  o'  fish-pole  thet  he  said  he  'd  shoot  aroun', 
An'  pretty  soon  the  heavens  would  be  pourin'  water  down. 

We  needed  rain  like  sixty,  fer  the  corn  was  pretty  dry, 
An'  I  thought,  "Well,   't  won't  hurt  nothin',   anyhow,  to 
let  him  try." 


40  DIALECT  POEMS. 

So  I  talked  with  Smith  an'  Billins,  an'  the  other  neighbors 

round, 
An'  we  'greed  on  fifty  dollars  ef  he  'd  come  an'  soak  the 

ground. 

So  he  fetched  his  queer  contrivance,  but  he  would  n't  let. 

us  see 
How  the  thing  was  worked  er  loaded ;  an'  he  lied  a  lock 

an'  key 

That  he  allers  kep'  on  duty,  like  a  pair  o'  sentinels, 
Keepin'  guard  above  a  satchel  of  new-fashioned  chemicals. 

He  got  stationed  in  my  barn-loft,  an'  he  made  a  little  hole 
In  the  roof,  an'  here  he  stuck  out  that  peculiar  piece  o' 
pole; 

An'  he  kep'  a-shootin'  with  it  somethin'  like  a  half  a  day, 
While  we  watched  fer  clouds  to  gather,  an'  he  spiled  a 
sight  o'  hay 

With  them  chemicals  o'  hisn.     But,  ez  sure  ez  I  am  born, 
By  an'  by  there  come  a  shower  thet  jest  saved  my  crop  o' 
corn. 


MAKING   IT  RAIN.  41 

Did  n't  rain  much  fer  my  neighbors,  though  it  give  my 

place  a  soak  ; 
But  it  looked  to  Smith  an'  Billins  like  a  Yankee  weather 

joke. 

Still  they  thought  they  'd  try  the  feller,  so  they  lied  him 

come  an'  stay 
Till  he  'd  brought  a  shower  on  them,  an'  had  spiled  a  lot 

o'  hay. 

Well,  the  neighbors  got  excited,  jest  ez  I  'd  a  done,  er 


An'  that   chap  bed  all  the  business  fer  a  while  thet  he 
could  do. 

'Long  this  spring  we  thought  we  'd  git  him  'fore  there  was 

too  much  demand 
'Round  the  State,  where  they  would  pay  him  any  price  to 

soak  their  land. 

So  he  come  the  first  of  April,  an'  he  made  it  rain  aroun', 
Till  we  wanted  him  to  quit   it,  fer  'twas  wet  ten  inches 
down. 


42  DlALECl^  POEMS. 

"Ef  you  '11  raise  five  hundred  dollars  I  '11  let  up,"  he  finally 

said, 
Ez  he  went  on  rnakin'  moisture  under  foot  an'  overhead. 

Smith  an'  Billins  growled  a  good  deal,  an'  I  said  we  never 

would, 
While  he  chuckled  ez  he  told  us  he  could  stan'  it  ef  we 

could. 

So  we  raised  the  chap  his  money,  an'  I  see  him  on  the 

train  ; 
But  the  weather  did  n't  know  it ;  it  went  on  to  rain  an' 

rain, 

Till  the  creeks  was  overflowin',  an'  the  mud  was  mighty 

deep, 
An'  the  heavens  felt  so  sorry  they  could  only  weep  an* 

weep. 

Could  n't  git  our  spring  crops  planted  ;    could  n't  hardly 

git  to  town ; 
Couldn't  git  the  cash  we'd  wasted;  hed  to  grin  an'  take 

it  down. 


MAKING  IT  RAIN.  4£ 

Me  an'  Smith  an'  Billins  figured  on  the  way  the  thing 

turned  out, 
An1  fer  us  't  would  be  lots  better  ef  he  M  never  come  about. 

So  we  're  goin'  to  stick  to  farmin',  ez  you  hev  to  in  the 

West, 
An'  the  Lord  can  run  the  weather  jest  about  ez  He  thinks 

best. 


44  DIALECT  POEMS. 


LITTLE  JIM  AGIN. 

Jest  wait  a  minute,  Husband ;  tears  are  things  I  had  n't 

planned. 
I  must  n't  let  Jim  see  'ern,  er  he  might  not  understand. 

He  's  waitin'  to  be  married ;  but  it  aint  that  moves  me  so, 
It 's  pictures  of  his  childhood  flockin'  back  from  long  ago. 

I  seem  to  see  him  marchin'  now  the  way  he  used  to  come, 
Across  the  meaders,  poundin'  on  his  little  home-made  drum. 

I  see  his  eyes  a-dancin'  ez  they  spy  the  doughnut  dish, 
Er  lookin'  sort  o'  wistful  when  they  try  to  tell  some  wish 

Tliet  's  brimmin'full  o'  meanin',  but  is  sort  o'  shy  o'  words, 
Half  hopin'  mother '11  read  it  in  the  music  of  the  birds. 

I  see  him  now  a-speakin',  an'  it 's  Decoration  Day, 
An'  everybody  's  cheerin'  him,  he  's  such  a  takin'  way. 


i.rrn.1-:  JIM  AGIN.  45 

•An'  now  he  must  be  ailin',  fer  he  's  lyin'  on  a  bed  : 

Oh,  yes,  don't  you  remember  when  he  fell  an' hurt  his  head? 

He  wasn't  only  seven,  an'  we  did  n't  think  he  VI  live, 
But  still  through  all  his  suff'rin'  he  lied  only  cheer  to  give. 

I  see  his  kite  an'  fish-pole,  an'  his  little  rake  an'  hoe; 

A  tent  of  my  rag  carpet,  where  he  held  his  Barnum's  show. 

An1  there  's  his  sled  an'  wagon,  but  I  won't  tell  all  I  see, 
Fer  you  're  a-cryiri',  Husband,  pretty  near  ez  much  ez  me. 

Our  heads  are  gettiir  silvered,  an'  we  know  the  years  hev 

flown, 
But  this  ain't  half  so  tellin'  ez  to  see  thet  Jim  is  grown. 

An'  now  we  're  at  his  weddin',  an'  he  's  takin'  fer  his  wife 
Ez  sweet  a  girl  ez  ever  went  to  bless  a  good  man's  life. 

He  's  runnin'  of  a  paper,  an'  I  guess  he  's  doin'  well ; 
He  talks  at  public  meetin's,  an'  I  've  heard  a  number  tell 

That  he  must  run  fer  Congress:  ef  he  does  I  know  he'll  win ; 
But  still  I  can't  help  wishin'  he  was  little  Jirn  agin. 


DIALECT  POEMS. 


HOW  LITTLE  NEB  MADE  PEACE. 

'Twas  sometime  along  in  the  fifties 

That  Silas  an'  me  was  wed, 
An'  it  almost  seems  like  magic 

When  I  think  how  the  years  hev  sped. 


We  both  was  yonng  an'  thrifty, 
An'  our  sky  was  bright  and  clear, 

An'  we  did  n't  hev  no  family  jar 
For  somethin'  past  a  year. 


An'  when  I  think  it  over 
It  seems  so  foolish  now, 

That  we  let  a  trifle  grow  until 
It  bordered  on  a  row. 


//Oil'  LITTLE   NEB    MADE    1'EACE.  47 

But  Silas  was  slow  an'  easy, 

An'  sometimes  pretty  late 
A  gettin'  in  to  dinner, 

An'  of  course  my  work  must  wait. 


One  day  he  threw  my  washin' 
An  hour  or  more  behind, 

An'  I  wouldn't  hev  no  explainer 
But  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind. 


He  happened  to  hev  a  good  reason 
That  time  fer  stayin'  out, 

But  I  jest  kep'  on  a-scoldiif 
An  hour  or  thereabout. 


An'  Silas,  mad  an'  huffy, 

Called  me  a  contrary  shrew ; 

I  could  n't  tell  jest  what  he  meant, 
But  'twas  somethin'  mean,  I  knew. 


48  DIALECT  POEMS. 

Things  didn't  look  much  like  improvin' 
When  we  'd  fretted  an'  fussed  fer  a  week, 

An'  I  was  too  cross  to  talk  reason, 
An'  Silas  too  surly  to  speak. 


Neither  one  would  give  in  or  speak  civil  — 
I  reckon  we  both  was  too  proud  — 

Till  the  Lord  quickly  shut  off  our  sunshine 
By  sendin'  an  awful  black  cloud. 


Our  dear  little  Nebuchadnezer, 
Our  baby  with  eyes  like  the  sky, 

One  mornin'  grew  sick,  an'  by  evenin' 
The  doctor  was  sure  he  must  die. 


Both  Silas  an'  me  was  distracted, 
Fer  he  was  our  treasure  an'  pride, 

An'  home  would  be  awfully  lonesome 
When  dear  little  Nebby  had  died. 


//OH'   LITTU:    \l-.n    .I/.//)/-:    PEACE.  \\\ 

But  yet  in  the  face  of  our  sorrow 
That  beast  showed  its  hideous  life, 

That  bitter  and  proud-headed  quarrel, 

That  peace-breakin',  home-wreckin'  strife. 


An'  while  we  watched  baby  together 
Each  hoped,  feared  an'  wrestled  alone ; 

An'  heaven  seemed  a  big  brass  inclosure, 
An'  earth  a  cold,  comfortless  stone. 


If  we  could  jest  sorrow  together, 

It  would  bring  such  a  flood  of  relief; 

But  neither  knew  how  to  get  at  it, 
So  we  sat  each  alone  in  our  grief. 


An'  so  baby  kep'  growin'  weaker 

An'  Silas  an'  me  staid  apart, 
Till  the  angels  come  down  an'  took  Nebby 

Where  strife  never  troubles  the  heart. 


—  4 


50  DIALECT  POEMS. 

Dear  Silas  !   that  blow  was  so  heavy  ! 

He  broke  down  when  Nebby  was  dead, 
An'  sat  in  his  arm-chair  a-nioanin', 

With  his  hands  up  a-holdin'  his  head. 


I  went  an'  sat  down  close  beside  him, 
He  knew  what  I  wanted  to  say 

But  could  n't,  an'  so  he  jest  answered, 
In  a  broken  an'  choked  sort  of  way : 


"Dear  Beckie,  fergive  me  for  stayin' — " 

An'  my  voice  was  so  husky  an"  weak, 
That  I  could  n't  answer  him  neither, 
Except  with  a  kiss  on  his  cheek. 


Tho'  neither  one  had  proposed  it, 
We  somehow  both  on  us  rose, 

An'  went  where  dear  Nebby  was  lyin' 
Asleep  in  his  last  long  repose. 


IIOll     I./TTLE  NEB  MADE  PEACE.  51 

We  knelt  by  the  cradle  together, 

Our  tears  were  abundant  an'  free, 
An'  Silas  was  sobbin'  an'  prayin' : 
"O  Lord,  fergive  Beckie  an'  me. 


•"  We  've  both  ben  to  blame  fer  this  trouble, 
We  Ve  both  held  our  notions  too  high ; 
But,  Lord,  when  we  fussed  an'  disputed 
We  did  n't  know  Nebby  would  die. 


•"  We  orten  to  ben  so  onyieldin'; 

This  awful  affliction 's  desarved, 
But  may  we  forever  hereafter 

From  quarrels  an'  sich  be  presarved. 


Then  Silas  an'  rne  kissed  each  other, 

An'  the  edge  was  removed  from  our  grief, 

An'  with  our  great  burden  of  sorrow 
There  came  a  great  sense  of  relief. 


52  DIALECT  POEMS. 

An'  never  since  then  hev  we  quarreled, 
But  each  one  has  earnestly  tried 

To  do  as  we  promised  each  other 
The  day  that  our  dear  Nebby  died. 


An'  so  we  Ve  been  livin'  an'  learnin', 
An'  somehow  we  've  both  come  to  think 

That  God  took  our  baby  to  save  us 
From  eternally  breakin'  love's  link. 


An'  while  the  swift  years  hev  been  passin', 
New  faces  hev  now  and  then  come, 

To  give  us  their  Babyland  sunshine, 
An'  prattle  all  gloom  from  our  home. 


An'  Silas  an'  me  hev  been  thinkin' 
How  many  a  family  has  had 

A  quarrelin'  father  an'  mother 

An'  children  jest  built  fer  the  bad  ; 


I/Oil'  LITTLE   NEB  MADE  PEACE.  53 

How  we  might  hev  kep'  on  disputing 

An'  hed  a  tumultuous  home, 
From  which  all  our  peace-lovin'  children 

Would  early  be  wantin'  to  roam. 

But  our  house  has  been  full  of  sunshine, 

Our  children  are  turnin'  out  well, 
An'  them  that 's  away  come  real  often 

To  visit  the  old  folks  a  spell. 


-So  Silas  an'  me  hev  decided 

That  the  one  whose  earth  toil  shall  first  cease, 
Will  tell  little  Neb  up  in  heaven 

That  he  turned  our  dissension  to  peace. 


ai 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


THAT  NEW   BOY. 

Well,  John,  your  telegram  's  received, 
A  brimming  draught  of  joy. 

The  news  can  hardly  be  believed, 
That  you  have  got  a  boy. 


It  seems  but  yesterday,  indeed, 

You  sat  in  Mother's  lap, 
Or  rode  a  prancing  broomstick  steed, 

A  white-haired  little  chap. 


I  can't  forget  the  load  of  great 

Responsibility 
With  which,  two  years  your  senior,  Fate 

Had  seemed  to  burden  me. 

(57) 


58  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Nor  be  unmindful  that  wherein 

Lay  my  authority, 
And  right  to  practice  discipline, 

Was  more  than  you  could  see. 


But  did  n't  we  have  worlds  of  fun, 
Those  watermelon  days, 

When  life  for  us  had  just  begun, 
And  new  were  all  its  ways  ? 


How  good  green  apples  tasted  then  — 

Until  we  went  to  bed, 
And  heard  from  that  same  fruit  again 

And  wished  that  we  were  dead  ! 


And  Saturdays,  when  out  of  school, 
What  more  could  youngsters  wish, 

Than  hook  and  line  and  limpid  pool 
And  half  a  day  to  fish  ? 


THAT  NEW  BOY. 


And  if,  perchance,  we  caught  a  few 

A  dozen,  say,  or  so  — 
None  longer  than  an  inch  or  two, 

How  proudly  home  we  'd  go  ! 


How  mother  loved  to  cook  those  fish  ! 

How  good  they  always  were  ! 
How  appetizing  every  dish 

Prepared  for  us  by  her ! 


Do  you  recall  that  after  school 
One  day  when  wells  were  dry, 

You  rode  Old  Jack,  our  pious  mule, 
To  try  the  creek  near  by? 


His  thirst  more  quickly  to  appease, 

Or  saintlier  to  seem, 
He  dropped  devoutly  on  his  knees, 

And  dumped  you  in  the  stream. 


60  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  even  have  to  laugh  to-day, 
At  how  your  vengeance,  cruel, 

Portrayed  the  fierce  and  ghastly  way 
You  planned  to  kill  that  mule ! 


But  by-and-by  your  wrath  was  stilled 

With  dry  attire  for  wet, 
And  if  Old  Jack  has  not  been  killed 

I  s'pose  he  's  living  yet. 


And  now  the  scroll  of  memory  brings, 

From  out  that  golden  past, 
Bright  days  which  flew  on  eagles'  wings, 

And  joys  too  deep  to  last. 


And  just  to  think  a  boy  has  come, 
A  sort  of  known  surprise, 

To  make  headquarters  at  your  home 
It 's  hard  to  realize. 


7 //,//'  XI-: IV  BOY.  61 

But  if  the  little  chap  survives, 

Before  he  reaches  six 
,Jii>t  note  how  deftly  he  contrives 

To  play  his  father's  tricks. 


If,  like  his  father,  he  attain 

The  ideal  six-foot  plan, 
May  he,  like  him,  in  heart  and  brain 

Be  every  inch  a  man. 


•62  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  PICTURE  OF  LIFE. 

The  sea  was  raging ;  near  the  rocks  a  ship  was  going  down, 
While  helpless  groups  stood  watching  from  a  little  fishing 

town. 
A  man  was  in  the  rigging,  they  could  hear  his  plaintive 

cry, 
But  no  one  dared  to  venture  out  with  such  a  sea  and  sky. 


"Poor  fellow  !"  "  It 's  too  bad  !"  "Too  bad  !"  was  heard  on 

every  hand, 
Till  some  one  cried  "Quick,  bring  a  boat!     I'll  fetch  the 

man  to  land  !" 
A  fearless  youth  had  spoken,  one  of  stalwart  heart  and 

arm, 
"Who  knew   the  sea  and   knew  his  strength,   but   did   not 

know  alarm. 


./   PICTURE  01-  /.//-'A.  63 

"Don't  go!"  a  chorus  shouted  ;  "it  is  certain  death  to  try." 
"Not    certain^*   smiled   the   hero,  and   he   turned   to   say 

"Good-by" 

To  one,  a  gray-haired  woman,  who  entreated  with  the  plea 
That  for  her  widowed  sake  he  M  not  go  out  on  such  a  sea. 

"Oh,  Jimmy,  you  are  all  I  have;  your  father's  crew  were 
drowned, 

Your  brother  George's  ship  went  down  and  he  was  never 
found ; 

And  now  don't  make  me  give  you  up;  I've  you,  but  noth- 
ing more." 

"There,  mother  don't  be  worried;  God  will  help  me  back 
to  shore. 

"  Pray,  mother,  while  I  'm  rowing ;  can't  you  hear  that  poor 

man's  cry ' 
You'd  think  your  boy  a  coward  if  I  stood  and   watched 

him  die." 

A  tear,  a  kiss,  the  boy  sets  out  —  he  battles  as  he  starts; 
A  hundred  prayers   are   rising  from   a  hundred   anxious 

hearts. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  village  mayor,  watching,  cries  "I  guess  the  lad  's  gone 

down  ; 
No,  there  he  comes,  and  right  side  up ;  he  's  too  good  stuff 

to  drown. 
Ah!  hold;  his  boat's  capsizing  —  no!  he's  righted  her; 

she'll  float ! 
He  throws  a  rope  —  there  —  look,  the  man  is  safely  in  the 

boat." 


The  mother's  heart  beats  wildly,  and  her  prayer  can  only 

be, 
"O  God,  my  George  has  perished ;  bring  my  Jimmy  back 

to  me." 

The  mayor  cried,  "They  're  hugging  —  must  be  crazy  stop- 
ping there  " ; 
A  shout  is  heard  that  rings  above  the  tempest  in  the  air. 

Four  stalwart  arms  instead  of  two  through  walls  of  billow 

forge, 
Till  near  enough,  then  Jimmy  shouts,  "Oh,  Mother,  it  is 

George  !" 


--  /.//•/•:.  65 


The  twain  are  safely  landed  —  the  heroic  deed  is  done; 
The  mother,  to  her  bosom,  clasps  two  sons  instead  of  one. 

The  boy  who  braved  the  billows,  dared  the  ocean's  raging 

track, 
Went  out  to  save  a  stranger,  but  he  brought  a  brother 

back. 

Oh,  picture  of  life's  drama:  some  are  sailing  o'er  the  main, 
And  some  are  safely  landed,  where  the  storm  fiends  rage 

in  vain  ; 

Some  struggling  'mid  the  breakers,  going  down  in  sight  of 

land, 

With  now  and  then  a  hero  holding  out  a  helping  hand. 
But  know,  O  fearful  boatman,  if  you  fling  alarms  to  air 
And  reach  yon  sinking  stranger,  you  will  find  a  brother 

there. 


—  5 


06  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"WOOLLY   BILL." 

Do  you  remember,  Mary,  fifty  years  ago  to-day, 

How  back  in  Massachusetts  we  were  packed  to  come  away? 

And  how  our  friends  surprised  us  just  before  we  made  the 

start, 
And  loaded  us  with  tokens  of  their  kindliness  of  heart? 

Both  born  and  raised  among  them,  we  had  known  them  all 

for  years : 
What  wonder,  then,  on  parting,  that  a  few  regretful  tears 

Defied  your  best  endeavors  and  my  strongest  wall  of  pride, 
Inquisitively  asking  what  was  going  on  outside. 

How  Deacon  Williams  told  us  we  were  foolish  not  to  stay 
When  several  gilt-edged  pulpits  had  their  offers  turned 
our  way. 


"WOOLLY  /»'//./..'•  67 

But  duty  pointed  plainly,  and  those  calls  we  did  n't  heed, 
But  set  our  faces  westward  where   the  call  was  just  the 
need. 

How  large  we  found  the  prairies,  how  the  sportive  zephyrs 

played 
Around  that  little  lodging  where  the  first  four  weeks  we 

stayed ! 

Do  you  recall  the  morning  when  we  heard  a  trampling 

sound, 
As  though  a  hundred  armies  on  the  plains  were  marching 

round  ? 

The  cause  was  soon  apparent,  when  a  cloud  of  dust,  you 

know, 
Swept  past  us,  half  concealing  scores  of  maddened  buffalo. 

And   after,  with  a  warning  of  its   dread   approach,   there 

came 
A  wing  of  Nature's  army,  an  immense  stampede  of  flame. 


68  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

We  couldn't  fly  before  it,  we  were  squarely  in  its  track; 
But  hurried  counter-fires  kept  its  awful  ravage  back. 

How  biting  cold  that  morning  when  the  Indians  came  down 
And  made  a  winter  sally  on  our  unsuspecting  town. 

They  had  some  ground  for  grievance,  and  like  bees  from 

troubled  hives, 
They  swarmed  and  sacked   and  pillaged,  scarcely  leaving 

us  our  lives. 

The  church,  just  half  completed,  we  had  worked  so  hard 

to  build, 
Was  left  a  heap  of  ashes  when  their  cup  of  wrath  was  filled. 

Of  every  hope  and  comfort  we  were  seemingly  bereft, 
Until  you  said  :   "Dear  Husband,  all  the  promises  are  left." 

And  so  we  stayed  and  labored,  and  in  time  rebuilt  the 

church, 
And  had  that  great  revival,  when  so  many  came  to  search 


« '  WOOLL  Y  BILL. "  69 

The  treasures  of  the  kingdom.     Oh,  't  was  worth  the  hard- 
ships, Wife, 
To  see  a  hundred  converts  finding  peace,  and  joy,  and  life. 

Then  all  the  other  places  where  we  first  proclaimed  the 

Word 
With  waves  of  Gospel  power  in  those  early  times  were 

stirred. 

I  often  think  of  Wild  Cliff.     How  inapt  I  tho't  that  name, 
With  everything  about  the  town  so  spiritless  and  tame, 

Until  one  Sunday  morning  I  rode  over  there  to  preach, 
And  found  a  dozen   cowboys,   with  two  large  revolvers 
each. 

The  leader  of  the  party,  fitly  christened  "Woolly  Bill," 
A  wreck  of  splendid  manhood  which  betrayed  some  vestige 
still, 

Carne  round  before  the  service  in  a  friendly  kind  of  way, 
And  told  me  he  was  running  everything  in  town  that  day. 


70  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"Now,  Parson,"  said  the  fellow,  "jest  light  in  an'  do  yer 

best, 
An'  give  us  fire  an'  brimstone,  an'  remember  you  're  out 

West." 

'T  was  rather  sudden  notice,  not  ten  minutes  to  prepare, 
But  I  was  always  loaded  in  those  early  days  for  bear. 

How  strange  the  situation :  half  confederate  with  Bill, 
To  stand  and  show  the  ruin  of  his  course  if  followed  still. 

And  if  I  touched  some  subject  less  with  retribution  vexed,. 
Bill  called  me  from  my  rovings  with,  "Stick,  Parson,  to 
yer  text." 

He  would  n't  let  me  swerve  an  inch,  until  I  chanced  to  say 
That   mother  loves   her  wayward   son,  no   matter  where 
he  stray. 

That  magic  word  of  "  mother  "  seemed  to  throw  a  misty 

vail 
Before  the  plainsman's  vision,  and  I  saw  I  had  the  trail. 


••  WOOLL  J     A'//./.."  71 

I  pictured  home  and   childhood,  mother's  loving,  tender 

care, 
The  morning  kiss  of  welcome,  evening's  "  Now  I  lay  me  " 

prayer. 

Some  subtle  power  led  me  to  portray  a  scene  of  death, 
A   boy  whose  heart  was  breaking  ^at  a  mother's  waning 
breath. 


Her  earnest  admonitions,  and  the  last  words,  feebly  given, 
"My  darling  Willie,  promise  that  you'll  meet  me  up  in 
Heaven." 


The   tears  for   several  minutes  had  been  trickling  down 

Bill's  cheek, 
And  now  the  sobbing  fellow  rose,  and,  turning,  tried  to 

speak. 


I  never  saw  contrition  till  that  burly  ranger  stood, 

His  very  grief  confessing  more  than  language  ever  could. 


72  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

His  comrades  were  astounded ;  they  had  known  the  man 

for  years, 
But  none  had  once  suspected  he  was  capable  of  tears. 

But  even  now  he  swayed  them,  for  the  power  of  his  grief 
But  showed  them  that  their  leader  had  been  born  indeed  a 
chief. 


And  when  our  friends  this  evening  with  their  gifts  sur- 
prised us  so, 

My  tho'ts  were  strangely  mingled  with  those  scenes  of  long 
ago. 

And  Deacon  Grey  was  present,  dear  old  faithful  William 

Grey, 
Whose  hoary  locks  remind  us  that  he  has  n't  long  to  stay. 

How  beautiful  his  language  in  presenting  us  these  chairs, 
His  picture  of  the  climbers  nearly  through  their  toilsome 
stairs ! 


••  WOOLL  Y  />'//./.."  73 

The  dear  old  man  has  finished  now  his  fourscore  steps  and 

eight ; 
I  almost  hear  him  knocking  at  the  threshold  of  the  Gate. 

And  when  we  're  all  admitted,  what  a  joy  we  '11  find  it  still 
To  know  this  king  in  Glory  once  was  known  as  "Woolly 
Bill"! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 

I  had  a  dream  within  a  dream  ; 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dreaming, 
As  mellow  light  the  qneen  of  night 

Across  my  room  was  streaming. 


I  dreamed  that  where  the  harvest  fair 

Invited  harvest  sabres, 
I  swung  my  blade,  until  the  shade 

Allured  me  from  my  labors. 


Among  the  trees  a  gentle  breeze 

Set  all  the  leaves  a-flutter ; 
While  sweet-voiced  birds  poured  forth  the  words 

The  zephyrs  tried  to  utter. 


////Y//.V   A    /MY:. /.I/. 

With  every  tliouglit  of  toil  forgot, 
Unconsciousness  soon  found  me ; 

Fantastic  tilings  on  dreamy  wings 
Seemed  floating  all  around  me. 

I  cannot  tell  what  subtle  spell 

Effected  thus  my  capture ; 
But  sorrow,  pain,  and  all  their  train 

Were  gone  ;  and  all  seemed  rapture. 

And  thus,  at  last,  the  day  was  past ; 

But  when  the  spell  unbound  me, 
Lo !   at  my  side,  from  far  and  wide, 

The  reapers  stood  around  me. 

The  Master  came  and  called  eacli  name ; 

Each  man  in  turn  replying 
How  long  he  'd  wrought,  what  sheaves  he  M 
brought, 

How  hard  the  day,  or  trying. 


76  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  deepest  shame  I  heard  my  name ; 

I  crimsoned  fast  and  faster ; 
I  felt  disgrace  writ  on  my  face, 

And  thus  addressed  the  Master : 


Good  Master,  be  not  wroth  with  me, 
Nor  too  severely  blame  me  ; 

By  heat  oppressed  I  stopped  to  rest, 
When  slumber  overcame  me. 


"Thus  lying  here,  sleep's  prisoner, 

The  precious  time  slipped  by  me  ; 
But  I  '11  redeem  these  hours  which  seem 
Thus  lost,  if  you  '11  but  try  me." 


Though  kindly  sad,  his  answer  had 
A  tone  remorse-demanding : 

Yon  coming  rain  will  spoil  the-  grain 
Which  you  to-day  leave  standing." 


./  /VV-A./J/  /r/y///.v  ./  /M- /•:./.]/.  77 

Just  as  lie  spoke  I  really  woke, 

Rejoiced  to  find,  though  weeping, 
No  wasting  grain,  no  threat 'ning  rain  ; 

I  'd  only  dreamed  of  sleeping. 


And  more  and  more  I  've  pondered  o'er 
This  strange,  impressive  vision, 

And  tried  to  glean  what  it  might  mean, 
Till  this  is  my  decision  : 


The  world  the  field,  and  souls  the  yield ; 

The  Christian  church  the  reapers ; 
The  ones  who  play  life's  hours  away, 

The  shade-enchanted  sleepers. 


The  evening  scene  I  take  to  mean 
That  there  is  surely  coming 

A  day  when  we  shall  clearly  see 
Of  life  the  total  summing. 


78  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Though  many  stand  with  empty  hand, 
Life's  harvest-time  all  slumbered, 

I  know  that  some  well-sheaved  will  come 
May  I  with  these  be  numbered. 


A:  i. \-SAS.  7<> 


KANSAS.* 

"Four  hundred  miles  long,  eight  thousand  miles  deep,  and  reaches  to 
the  stars."— JOHN  A.  ANDERSON. 

Tis  not  her  cribs  of  yellow  corn, 
Her  bursting  bins  of  golden  wheat, 

Her  meadows  gemmed  at  break  of  morn, 
Her  prairies  buttercupped  and  sweet ; 

Her  pastures  spotted  o'er  with  kine, 

Her  knolls  and  ridges  white  with  sheep, 

Her  favored  spots  where  shaft  and  mine 
Bid  boundless  treasure  wake  from  sleep. 

'T  is  not  in  what  we  trade  for  gold, 
In  things  appraised  by  bulk  or  weight, 

Not  in  the  purchased  or  the  sold, 
Thy  lasting  glory  lies,  O  State. 


*Read  before  the  State  Convention  of  Young  Men's  Christian  Associations,  at 
Lawrence,  Kas.,  October  30,  1892. 


80  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Thou  hast  a  history  engraved 
Upon  the  pyramids  of  time ; 

The  prophet  sees  thy  future,  paved 
Perhaps  with  thorns,  yet  still  sublime. 


The  brave,  the  true,  the  wise,  the  good, 
Inspired  by  thee  have  made  their  stand  ; 

Their  manhood  and  their  womanhood 
In  turn  have  made  thy  record  grand. 


Young  men  of  Kansas,  let  there  be 
No  faltering  where  those  heroes  trod,, 

Though  freed  from  rum  and  slavery 
This  land  must  still  be  won  for  God. 


Be  firm,  courageous,  valiant,  true, 
Let  others  falter  if  they  must. 

The  State  expectant  looks  to  you  ; 
Be  faithful  to  her  sacred  trust. 


KANSAS.  81 

Where  siren  snares  are  laid  for  youth, 
Where  blackest  sin  wears  brightest  gloss, 

Unmask  deception,  herald  truth, 
Unfurl  the  banner  of  the  cross. 

Go  home  and  let  the  whole  world  feel 

That  Kansas  is  ablaze  again  ; 
Young  men  of  wisdom,  tact  and  zeal 

Are  marching  forth  to  save  young  men. 


—  G 


M ISC  ELL  A  NE  O  US  POEMS. 


THE  COWBOY  POET. 

Sharp-Shooter  Jim,  a  cowboy,  roamed  the  wild,  romantic 

West, 

Ranked  in  his  rough  profession  as  among  the  very  best ; 
Yet  through  his  reckless  nature  ran  a  strange,  poetic 

strain, 
Which  turned  his  thoughts  to  rhythm  as  he  galloped 

o'er  the  plain. 
In  all  the  western    authors  he  was  more  or  less  well 

read  ; 

And  his  "divine  afflatus"  by  this  fuel  had  been  fed 
Until  he  took  the  lyre  and  began,  himself,  to  write ; 
Though  all  his  maiden  efforts  were  most  strictly  "  out  of 

sight." 
But,  when  at  last  discovered,  he  was  forced  to  own  their 

coin, 

To  grant  their  presentation,  and,  in  fact,  himself  to  join 
In  reading  from  the  poems  he  was  bold  enough  to  write  ; 


THE    COWBOY  POET.  S3 

For  Jim  was  somewhat  noted  for  his  power  to  recite. 
He  loved  to  speak    from  Riley,  Field,  Sam  Foss,  or 

Eugene  Ware, 

Or  give  Nye's  autumn  poem  on  the  atmosphere  and  air. 
And  now  his  new  departure  made  it  everywhere  the  talk 
That  his  talents  were  not  bounded  by  the  range  assigned 

to  stock. 
One  plainsman  said  but  little,  save  to  give  the  modest 

hint 
That  Jim  would  be  gray-headed  when  he  saw  his  rhymes 

in  print. 

This  nettled  his  admirers,  and  they  urged  him  to  submit 
His  verses  to  some  paper;  they  were  sure  to  make  a  hit. 
A  little  town  was  starting,  off  some  twenty  miles  or 

more, 

Which  had  a  one-horse  weekly,  run  above  a  one-horse 

/ 

store. 
The  editor,  one  morning  at  his  desk  —  a  dry  goods 

box  — 
Sat  sorting  squibs  of  humor  to  be  headed  uSand  and 

Rocks," 


84  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

When  in  there  came  a  cowboy,  looking  diffident  and 


As  though  almost  persuaded  that  he  'd  better  turn  and 

fly. 

"Good    morning,"  said    the  editor  with  business  in  his 

tones  ; 
"  You  wish   a  year's  subscription  to  The  Weekly  Skull 

and  Bones?" 
"Not  that    exactly,"  Jim    replied,  his    cheek    a  crimson 

tint  ; 
"  I  Ve  got  some  verses  here  that  I  would  like  fer  you  to 

print." 

"We  seldom  publish  poems,  and  besides,  sir,  if  we  should, 
We  'd  choose  from  standard  authors  who  are  recognized 

as  good  ; 
But,  if  you  '11  leave  your  copy  here,  and  call  next  week 

again, 

I  '11  probably  find  time  to  pass  my  judgment  on  it  then." 
From  underneath  his  pistol  belt  Jim  drew  a  crumpled 

sheet, 
With  four  unmated  stanzas  set  to  fitful  rhymes  and  feet. 


THE   COWBOY  POli'l \  85 

The   editor   reviewed    them  with    a  chafed,   impatient 

glance, 

Which  prophesied  their  failure  and  rejection  in  advance. 
•Don't  think  they'll  answer,"  said  this  rash  Apollo  of 

the  pen. 
;  Why  not  ? "  said  Jim.    "  Because,  sir,  they  're  not  poetry; 

and  then 
We  're  after  news,  not  verses.     Kindly  call  again  ;  good 

day." 
The  man  was  plainly  verdant  in  the  common  western 

way. 

A  cowboy's  wrath  is  symbolled  by  a  blast  of  dynamite, 
And  if  it  warns  explosion  you  are  safest  out  of  sight. 
Jim's  shyness  changed  to  anger,  and  his  look  was  fierce 

and  grim ; 
No  lily-fingered  dude  should  make  a  laughing-stock  of 

him. 
He  took  his  slighted  copy,  trembling  with  the  rage  he 

felt, 

And  drew  a  seven-shooter  from  his  heavy  pistol  belt. 
He  cocked  the  weapon,  aimed  it  at  the  other  fair  and 

square. 


36  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"Now   say  that   this  aint  poetry,"  he  shouted,  "if  you 

dare !  " 
"Don't  shoot!     We  '11  print  the  verses!  "  in  affright  the 

critic  cried. 

"But  are  they  poetry?  "  said  Jim.     The  editor  replied  : 
"  You  bet  they  are ;  they  Te  forcible,  impressive,  and  in- 
deed 
I  think,  sir,  we  shall  find  them  just  exactly  what  we 

need." 
And  then,  for  pistol  practice,  and  to  test  his  faultless 

shot, 
Jim  sent  a  score  of  bullets  through  the  ceiling  in  one 

spot. 

The  printers  took  the  copy,  and  within  an  hour's  time 
They  had   the   proof   corrected  on   that   bit   of  ranger 

rhyme. 
Jim's  lines  appeared  next  morning,  and  behold !   above 

his  name, 

A  glowing  introduction  to  the  starry  fields  of  fame. 
Some  larger  paper  saw  it,  and  inquired  if  now  and  then 
They  might  receive  a  poem  from  his  bright  and  breezy 

pen 


/'//A     COir/lOY    />(>/:'/'.  87 

To-day  lie   might   be  numbered  with   the  rhymers   of 

renown 
Had  not  a  jealous  rival  deemed  it  best  to  shoot  him 

down. 

But  his  example  lingers,  and  the  way  his  course  begun 
Leaves  room  for  vast  conjecture  as  to  what  he  might 

have  done. 

In  life's  uncertain  contest  brass  helps  many  men  ahead  ; 
But  when  it  comes  to  poets  nothing  takes  the  place  of 

lead. 


88  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


THE  RESUBMISSIONIST'S  STORY. 

I  took  the  western  fever  in  the  fall  of  eighty-two, 
And  thought  I  'd  try  my  fortune  in  a  State  where  all 

was  new. 

A  taste  of  Kansas  zephyrs  toned  my  lagging  appetite, 
And  gave  me  zest  for  labor  and  delightful  sleep  at  night. 
I  took  a  good  pre-emption,  built  a  cozy  little  home, 
Enjoyed  the  furrowed  richness  of  the  black  and  virgin 

loam, 

Imbibed  the  Kansas  spirit  in  the  enterprising  air, 
And  felt  the  sense  of  progress  in  the  people  everywhere. 
I  loved  the  cheerful  sunshine  and  the  laughter  of  the 

storm, 
And  always  stood  by  Kansas,  bright  or  cloudy,  cold  or 

warm. 

I  thought  her  almost  perfect,  save  for  one  gigantic  flaw— 
Her  legislative  blunder  of  a  prohibition  law. 


THE   RESUBMISSIONIST'S  STOA'Y.  S<) 

The  anti-license  action,  which  the  State  had  just  begun, 
I  believed  was  suicidal,  and  must  be  at  once  undone. 
I  never  lost  occasion  to  announce  my  party  plank, 
And  I  must  have  come  to  be  a  sort  of  resubmission 

crank. 

I  seldom  took  a  drink  myself,  but  thought  the  temper- 
ance cause 
Ought  to  stick  to  moral  suasion,  and  not  tamper  with 

the  laws  ; 

And  I  fought  this  hated  statute  in  so  vigorous  a  way, 
I  was  thoroughly  disgusted  when  I  found  it  there  to 
stay. 

I  had  a  boy  named  Willie,  and  a  smarter  little  chap 
Never  nestled  for  a  story  in  a  father's  evening  lap. 
He  had  a  way  of  saying  things  we  did  n't  think  he  knew, 
And  everything  I  talked  about  he  had  to  talk  of,  too  ; 
My  hobby-horse  he  learned  to  ride,  and  preached  my 

"Kansas  cure"- 

Ardent  little  resubmissionist,  myself  in  miniature ; 
And  when,  a  little  older,  he  began  to  go  to  school, 
He  thought  that  every  temperance  man  was  nothing 

but  a  fool. 


90  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Our  district  lyceum  one  fall  arranged  a  big  debate 
Upon  the  mooted  question  of  restriction  by  the  State. 
Willie,  drilled  beforehand,  made  a  speech  —  a  little  chap 

of  ten  — 

On  anti-prohibition,  and  out-argued  half  the  men. 
His  side  came  out  victorious,  and  everybody  said 
'T  was  the  logic  of  his  speech  that  brought  the  "  antis  " 

out  ahead. 
They  cheered  the  little  fellow,  and  one  man  came  'round 

to  say, 
"My  boy,  you'll  make  a  Webster  or  a  Robert  Hayne 

some  day." 
And   as  the   boy  grew  older,  sharp   though   winsome, 

strong  though  slim, 
My  wife  and  I  were  coming  to  be  "just  wrapped  up  in 

him." 

I  had  a  chance  one  day  to  trade,  by  paying  something 

down, 

For  a  thriving  line  of  business  in  a  live  Missouri  town. 
The  place  was  strong  high  license,  and  its  ten  saloons 

or  more 
A  very  large  percentage  of  the  town's  expenses  bore. 


/•///•;  AV-.'.SV  7>.i//.v.s7( WJST* .v  .v TOK  Y.  91 

I  told  my  Kansas  neighbors,  when  I  went  to  move  away. 
That  I  had  found  a  decent  place,  and  there  I  meant  to 

stay. 
And  I  half  believed  my  influence,  in  going  from  the 

State, 

Would  destine  prohibition  to  a  sad  and  early  fate. 
All  went  smoothly  in  Missouri,  and  my  town  I  thought 

was  reached, 
Till  I  found  my  boy  was  learning  how  to  practice  what 

I  preached ; 

For  something  strong  he  seemed  to  have  an  inborn  ap- 
petite, 

And  he  early  formed  the  habit  of  carousing  late  at  night. 
For  weeks  I  would  n't  hear  it,  that  he  'd  really  learned 

to  drink, 
And  when  't  was  forced  upon  me  I  was  puzzled  what  to 

think, 
And  still  more  puzzled  what  to  say,  for  I  had  fought 

for  rum, 
Never  thinking  its  invasions  would  be  turned  upon  my 

home. 


92  MISCELLANEOUS  POKMS. 

Of  course  I  ceased  my  tirade  on  our  sister  temperance 

State, 
But  that  did  n't  help  the  matter,  for  my  silence  came  too 

late ; 
And  when  one  night  he  staggered   home   almost  too 

drunk  to  walk, 

I  began  to  reap  the  harvest  of  my  resubrnission  talk ; 
And  late  next  morning,  when  with  nervous  step  he  came 

down  stairs, 
I  tried  to  show  the  pitfalls  where  drink  hides  his  wily 

snares. 

My  words,  I  thought,  were  telling  on  the  boy's  repent- 
ant heart, 

But  soon  he  undeceived  me  by  assuming  just  the  part 
That  I  had  often  taken,  for  he  used  my  arguments 
To  build  about  his  action  an  impregnable  defense : 
"We  have  to  have  saloons,"  said  he,  "to  make  a  lively 

town, 
And  if  they  're  not  supported  they  will  very  soon  go 

down." 
He  'd  said  enough  ;  I  had  to  stop ;  of  course  he  had  his 

way, 


'///A    RESUBMJSS/ONIST'S  .v/VMT.  93 

While  I  must  watch  in  silence  his  advancing  doom  each 

day. 
His  mother  tried  to  stop  him,  but  in  vain  her  prayers 

and  tears  — 
He  had  too  much  momentum  from  his  early  childhood 

years ; 
And  he  sunk  so  fast  his  ruin  was  an  awful   thing  to 

watch, 

For  soon  he  came  to  revel  almost  nightly  in  debauch. 
"T  was  always  well  toward  morning  when  he  'd  quit  his 

haunts  of  sin, 

But  his  mother  never  slumbered  till  her  boy  was  safely  in. 
And  so  it  went  until  he  did  n't  come  one  stormy  night, 
Though  his  mother  kept  her  vigils  till  the  east  was  gray 

with  light. 
And  the'n  she  saw  a  little  group  of  boys  approach  our 

gate, 
Whose  slow  and  labored  footsteps  told  they  bore  some 

heavy  weiglit. 
She   summoned    me   to   meet    them  —  this   sad,   silent, 

mournful  band  — 
For  terrors  smote  her  bosom  as  the   breakers  lash    a 

strand. 


94  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  burden-bearers  entered  with  a  hushed  and  muffled 

tread, 
And  on  the  bier  they  carried  lay  our  Willie,  cold  and 

dead. 
One  glance  !  one  moan  !  — his  mother  swooned  upon  his 

lifeless  breast ; 
And  I  was  changed  to  marble  !  — I  can  scarce  recall  the 

rest, 

Except  a  baby's  cradle  which  was  rocking  to  and  fro, 
And  Willie  cooing  in  it,  as  he  had  long  years  ago ; 
And  hazy,  scenes  of  childhood,  roguish  mischief,  boyish 

glee, 

A  little  living  copy  patterned  always  after  me. 
And  then  the  madness  vanished,  and  my  reeling  brain 

was  stilled ; 

And  there  my  child  was  lying,  by  my  own  false  teach- 
ing killed. 

Well,  now  that  he  has  left  us,  and  his  blighted  life  is 

o'er, 
The  place  we  used  to  call  our  home  is  not  home  any 

more ; 


/•///•;  K/-:sc/L}f/ss/o.v/ST>s  .V/YMT.  95 

A  diviul   remorse  will  haunt  it,  which  I  cannot  make 

depart, 

And  my  wife  is  slowly  dying  of  a  mother's  broken  heart ; 
And  day  and  night  't  is  Willie,  though  we  seldom  speak 

his  name, 
But  our  very  silence  shows  us  that  we  think  and  feel 

the  same. 

In  dreams  I  often  see  him  as  a  little  boy  again, 
Or   grown,  perhaps,  to   manhood,   swaying   crowds   of 

listening  men. 
And  with  the  happy  vision  hope  and  joy  return  once 

more, 
Till  wakefulness  engulfs  me  in  the  grief  I  had  before. 

Believe  me :   when  you  hear  a  man  disparaging  all  laws 
The  end  of  which  is  triumph  for  the  glorious  temperance 

cause ; 

Opposed  to  prohibition,  bound  its  object  to  destroy ; 
Placing  gold  at  higher  value  than  the  safety  of  his  boy  ; 
One  who  really  fights  for  whisky,  I  care  not  who  he  is  — 
I  tell  you  what,  he  '11  change  his  mind  if  the  boy  it  kills 

is  his. 


<)G  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MASSA'S  CONVERSION. 

Down  in  Southern  Carolina, 
Just  before  the  civil  strife, 

I  was  on  a  short  vacation 
From  my  busy  northern  life. 


Having  a  delightful  visit 

With  my  Uncle,  William  Ore, 

Who  was  then  a  wealthy  planter, 
With  a  hundred  slaves  or  more. 


Back  some  distance  from  his  mansion 
Several  negro  cabins  stood, 

Near  a  stream  which  half  encircled 
In  its  course  a  neighboring  wood. 


.]/./. v.svr.v  m\ TV KS/ON.  97 

Here  the  colored  people  gathered 

To  exhort  and  sing  and  pray, 
When,  with  intermittent  candle, 

Lit  the  fly  his  night-bound  way. 


Night  had  fallen  down  one  evening, 
As  we  chatted  on  the  porch, 

When  I  saw  the  grove  was  lighted 
With  some  curious  kind  of  torch. 


And  its  dim,  uncertain  nicker 
Showed  an  audience  was  there ; 

And  I  thought  I  saw  one  negro 
In  the  attitude  of  prayer. 


When  he  closed  we  heard  them  singing 
Some  plantation  Gospel  song. 

One  arose  and  lined  the  verses 

Which  the  rest  sang  clear  and  strong. 


98  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


- 


I,  of  course,  was  unaccustomed 
To  such  music,  sung  so  slow ; 

And  their  singing  brought  to  memory 
Boyhood  songs  of  long  ago. 


Uncle  Will  and  I  approached  them, 
Finding  safe  seclusion  near, 

Where  the  whole  of  their  proceedings 
We  could  both  observe  and  hear. 


In  the  testimony  meeting 

Many  odd  remarks  were  made ; 

Still  each  member  seemed  in  earnest 
As  he  talked  or  sang  or  prayed. 


It  was  hard,  as  may  be  fancied, 

When  they  told  their  joys  and  fears, 

To  refrain  at  times  from  laughter, 
Then  to  check  unbidden  tears. 


.U.ISSA'S   CONVERSION,  99 

First  the  old  gray -headed  leader 
Spoke  of  Heaven's  promised  bliss, 

And  he  brought  his  exhortation 
To  a  close  about  like  this : 


"In  dis  big  Salvation  co'nfield 
I  is  almost  done  my  row ; 
I  can  see  de  end  out  yonder, 
Jes'  a  few  mo'  hills  to  hoe. 


"Den  de  Lawd  is  gwine  to  take  me 

Wha'  my  fambly's  gone  befo', 

And  I  '11  meet  my  wife  and  chillun 

On  de  bright  and  golden  sho\ 


"All  day  long  dis  ole  man's  singin' 

All  de  songs  he  lub  de  bes', 
But  sometimes  a  cloud  ob  sadness 
Hides  de  sun  ob  righteousness, 


100  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  'Kase  you  know  dat  good  ole  massa 

Neber  gib  de  Lawd  his  haht, 
And  I 's  'fraid  dat  in  de  jedgment 
God  will  say  to  him  'Depaht.' 


uHe  has  got  among  de  angels 

Many  fren's  beside  his  boy ; 
Ef  he'd  come  to  Christ  dey'd  all  turn 
Hebben  up-side-down  wid  joy. 


Ef  I  knew  dat  up  in  Glory 

I  should  meet  him  dar  some  day, 

I  should  like  to  go  dis  eb'nin'. 

Brudder  Rasmus,  will  you  pray?" 


Then  a  tall,  ungainly  negro, 
With  a  head  of  bushy  hair, 

Hose  and  gave,  in  plaintive  accent, 
This  unstudied,  childlike  prayer : 


MASSA' S   CO.\'r/<KS/ON.  1'iiJ 

Lawd,  why  is  it  dat  we  niggers 

Is  so  chuck  full  ob  dy  love, 
When  our  good,  kin'-hahted  massa 

Ain't  no  hope  in  Hebben  above  2 


uLawd,  I  done  gone  lubs  my  massa, 

An'  I  wish  dat  he  lubbed  you  ; 
But  ef  he  don'  git  to  Hebben 
Den  I  want  to  miss  it,  too. 


Now  den,  Lawd,  turn  loose  yo'  spirit; 

Come  wid  all  yo'  power  and  might  ; 
Melt  ole  massa's  haht  dis  eb'nin'; 

Fill  his  soul  wid  peace  and  light ; 


"Den  when  Gabriel  blow  his  trumpet  — 

Loud  as  eber  Gabriel  ken, 
Whedder  we  be  dead  or  libben, 

We'll  all  meet  in  Hebben.     Amen." 


'1Q2     '  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Wrapped  so  close  was  my  attention 
By  the  speaker's  awkward  grace, 

That,  till  now,  I  had  not  noticed 
Any  change  in  Uncle's  face. 


He  was  plainly  much  affected, 
For  his  handsome  manly  form 

Trembled  with  suppressed  emotion, 
As  a  leaf  resists  the  storm. 


Well,  the  meeting  still  continued, 
We  remaining  out  of  sight ; 

Many  prayed  that  "  massa's  pathway  " 
Might  be  "lit  wid  Hebben's  light." 


They  were  singing  "  Come  to  Jesus, 
He  yo'  po'  lost  soul  will  save," 

When  my  uncle  went  up  forward, 
With  a  look  disturbed  but  grave. 


MASSES  CONVERSION.  103 

Took  a  seat  beside  the  leader ; 

Bowed  in  reverence  his  head ; 
Waited  till  the  song  was  finished ; 

Then  in  trembling  accent  said : 


Many,  many  years  God's  spirit 
Has  been  striving  with  my  heart ; 

But  my  love  for  fame  and  riches 
Has  compelled  Him  to  depart. 


"But  to-night  I  'in  very  anxious 
To  begin  the  Christian  life. 
In  my  weakness  may  God  help  me 
To  be  victor  in  the  strife. 


Pray  the  Lord  to  make  me  constant 

In  my  labors  to  the  end, 
For  whatever  time  is  left  me 

In  His  service  I  must  spend !  " 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Silence  reigned  for  just  a  moment 

After  Uncle  closed,  and  then 
"Bress  de  Lawd !  "  exclaimed  the  leader. 
And  the  others  cried  "Amen." 


Then  ensued  such  demonstrations 
As  display  true  negro  soul : 

Laughing,  singing,  crying,  shouting, 
Their  delight  was  past  control. 


This  continued  for  a  season, 

Till  at  length  the  leader  said  : 
"As  we  thank  our  Hebbenly  Father, 
Let  each  memba'  bow  his  head." 


With  the  prayer  the  service  ended, 
Each  attendant  went  his  way ; 

At  the  house  we  found  them  wondering 
What  had  caused  our  long  delay. 


J/./.s.s./'.V   CONVERSION.  1Q5 

Uncle  gave  full  explanations, 

And  his  eyes  were  tilled  witli  tears 

As  he  said  :   "At  last  I  Ve  started 
Though  I  Ve  waited  many  years." 


Something  over  one  year  later, 

True  to  what  he  thought  was  right, 

Uncle  joined  the  Southern  Army 
And  was  killed  in  his  first  fight. 


But  I  'm  sure  that  old  class-leader, 
And  the  ones  who  led  in  prayer, 

When  they  reached  the  heavenly  city 
Found  "Ole  Massa"  waiting  there. 


106  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


SUNRISE. 

And  now  begins,  with  nature-wak'ning  raj, 
The  universal  autocrat  of  day, 

With  all-observant  eye 

His  journey  through  the  sky, 
To  see  that  all  preserves  its  wonted  way, 

And  ere  we  see  his  many-colored  train 

Sweep  grandly  down  behind  the  Western  plain, 

The  joyous  nuptial  bell 

And  funereal  knell 
Will  publish  earth's  intensest  bliss  and  pain. 

As  far  as  eye  can  see  on  every  hand, 
In  billowy  folds  of  undulating  land, 

With  nodding  crests  of  green 

An  ocean  vast  is  seen, 
For  which  the  distant  sky  provides  a  strand. 


SUNX/SE.  107 

From  all  the  plain  an  anthem  seems  to  swell, 
Continually  re-echoed  from  the  dell ; 

The  early-risen  swain 

Is  jocund  at  the  strain 
Which  joins  the  chorus  from  the  breakfast  bell. 

From  Nature's  bounty  now  a  share  to  ask, 
The  plowman  takes  again  his  humble  task, 

To  turn  the  fallow  plot; 

Nor  murmurs  at  his  lot, 
Because  it  wears  not  wealth's  delusive  mask. 

The  herd-boy  whistles  to  his  faithful  dog 
Ere  yet  the  vale  has  parted  with  its  fog ; 

And  down  the  beaten  lane 

Proceeds  a  solemn  train 
Intent  to  pasture  by  the  neighboring  bog. 

With  lofty  head  and  self-important  air, 
And  all  the  pomp  the  honored  often  bear, 

One  grazer,  in  her  pride, 

Assumes  the  role  of  guide, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  bell  she  haps  to  wear. 


108  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Now  borne  across  the  intervening  plain 
Is  heard  the  rumble  of  a  distant  train  ; 

Gigantic  slave  of  man, 

Swift  commerce  caravan, 
With  highway  touching  Mexico  and  Maine. 

What  means  that  group  of  massive  brick  and  stone 
Which  stands  in  solemn  grandeur,  vast  and  lone? 

Oh,  mournful  to  repeat, 

Yon  castle  gives  retreat 
To  him  whose  reason  abdicates  her  throne. 

Now  let  the  roving  eye  a  moment  rest 

Where  Washburn  stands,  in  crimson  glory  drest  — 

The  rendezvous  of  youth, 

The  garner-house  of  truth, 
The  young  and  rising  Athens  of  the  West. 

Where  roof  and  chimney  indistinctly  rise 
And  spire  and  turret  struggle  toward  the  skies, 

A  city  greets  the  sight, 

Whose  shafts  of  laughing  light, 
Reflected  from  the  east,  entrance  our  eyes. 


lot) 


II«>\v  manifold  and  motley  the  array 
Of  heart  excises  levied  there  to-day  ! 

How  boundless  is  the  scope  ! 

How  keen  despair  and  hope, 
When  through  a  city's  throbbing  pulse  they  play. 

Above,  beneath,  before  us  and  behind, 

All  Nature's  myriad  tongues  are  unconfined. 

Each  has  a  different  song, 

And  yet  the  medley  throng 
Defy  us  one  discordant  note  to  find. 

And  now  the  heart,  with  ecstasy  spellbound, 
Believes  no  scene  more  charming  can  be  found 

In  all  the  wide  domain 

Of  Kansas  glade  and  plain, 

Than   daybreak    viewed    in    June    from   Burnett's 
Mound. 


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